Diva Rules by Amir Abrams Read Free Book Online

rotation slot ’n’ I’m done with him. Otherwise, I woulda wrapped my lips around him ’n’ had me a taste of that lil boo-daddy juice. Trust.

8
    N ever let another chick steal your shine...
    The one thing I hate more than a cheap pair of heels or a handbag with them frayed raggedy edges is a phony bish ! And, trust. McPherson High’s halls are flooded with the likes of ’em. Fakes. A buncha wannabe Barbies. All tryna be the next Nicki Minaj. Whoop, whoop! Chile, boom! Who let the clowns out! Epic fails!
    Besides me, Miesha, ’n’ a few of the cheerleaders, all these other chickies clucking around here in their thot wear ’n’ lace fronts are straight-up fraudulent. Okay, well, not all of ’em. But most of ’em definitely are. And those are the ones that make the palms of my hands itch to slap ’em up. All they do is smile up in your face ’n’ talk about you behind your back. Then when you step to ’em ’n’ confront ’em, they wanna start hemming ’n’ hawing ’n’ backpedaling. Chile, boom!
    But every now ’n’ then I entertain their foolery. After all, I know how to serve up a dish of messy with the best of ’em. Bottom line for me is this: A real diva is her only competition. So no chick can do me better than I can do myself. No matter how hard she tries.
    Trust.
    â€œWhat, you can’t speak?” this chick Alicia says, walking over to my locker as I’m slamming it shut. I look her up ’n’ down. She’s standing here holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart, wearing a pair of nondescript jeans with a cute lil black off-the-shoulder blouse ’n’ a pair of red heels. Nine West, I think. But what I care? Not my feet. Not my worry.
    She tosses her hair.
    Two can play that. I flick mine. “Should you be eating that mess? Didn’t you just get a ton of gut fat sliced outta you last summer?”
    She rolls her eyes, sucking her teeth. “Don’t worry about what I eat.”
    I shrug. “Your body.” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Now. How can I help you?”
    â€œDon’t get cute,” she says, placing a hand up on her now size ten hips. Now being the operative word, because before her parents sent her away to some chunky girls’ farm last summer, she was a thick, six-piece-’n’-a-biscuit, greasy-spoon, eat-a-whole-cake kinda chick. Size eighteen or twenty, I think. All I know is, she had like a sixty-inch waist ’n’ was a real big beef patty. But now that she’s serving up a few new curves ’n’ a smaller waistline, she’s really feelin’ herself.
    Now, I’m not gonna hate or even throw shade on the chick. Because that’s not how I do mine. No, no. No, hun. No shade, ever. I give credit where credit’s due. Alicia’s real cute in the face. She has high cheekbones ’n’ a kinda thin nose. She kinda looks... exotic. And her new ’n’ improved body makes her fourth runner-up for the next Wish I Could Be You world pageant. Still, she ain’t ready to go up against moi .
    I blink. “Come again? Don’t get cute? Ooh, hun, I stay cute. Would you like my autograph now or later, sweetie?”
    She flicks a dismissive wave at me. “Girl, bye. Not.”
    I shake my head ’n’ walk off, heading down the hall.
    She falls into step alongside me, unwelcome. “What I wanna know is why you stood me up yesterday.”
    I shoot her an icy glare. “Excuse you ? Sweetie, I know I didn’t let you get the cookie last night, so why is you coming at me like you just blew my back out?”
    â€œTramp, bye. Miss me with that. You can’t do a thing for me.”
    I give her a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Girl, have several seats. What do you want?”
    She rolls her eyes. Tells me I was supposed to meet her down at the library so we could work on our English Lit